


[In Which Friends and Family Weigh In]

by Exal



Series: 12 Conversations About One Thing [7]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: And was pregnant previous to the story, Discussion of Nah's past life, Drabble, F/M, Gen, Infant child, OC manakete, Post-Canon, Tacit acknowledgement that Nowi is capable of reproducing, Talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29876412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exal/pseuds/Exal
Summary: "To name a child after a loved one is the truest of honors.  In any case, were you not planning on naming her Nah?”  Postwar, post-marriage, after everything has settled down, this is how Virion and Nowi decide how to name their infant child.
Relationships: Viaur | Virion/Nono | Nowi
Series: 12 Conversations About One Thing [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2133747
Kudos: 2





	[In Which Friends and Family Weigh In]

###  **Conversation 5 [In which friends and family weigh in]**

“She's so _little_ ,” Nowi cooed, cuddling her baby in her arms. This was the child's fourteenth day of life, and Nowi was expressing this particular sentiment for what felt like the fourteenth time. Still, Virion found her continued wonder at the world around her, at even her own child, to be charming and even beautiful, in a way. 

'Her own child,' for the baby did not have a name. Nowi, with guidance from Tiki and even Nah, had recalled an ancient draconic tradition called “Hatching Day.” Dating back to even the first days of the Dragon Tribe assuming human form, Hatching Day took place several months after the birth of a child, on the approximate day a true dragon would have hatched from their egg. Births being cruicial among dragons, a Hatching Day was typically celebrated with a feast and a grand presentation of the child, as well as the designation and announcement of the child's name.

(As if Virion needed an excuse to throw a party.)

The date for the Hatching Day fête was set, but the party herself was still in the planning stages, and would be for weeks. Still, the errand Virion had chosen to fulfill on this particular day deserved to be hastened, for a number of reasons.

Hastened, that is, if Virion could get his lady wife out the front door. “Nowi, my dearest,” Virion said, looping one of his arms around one of Nowi's, “as much as I do adore watching you dote over the child, our carriage awaits. I fear my driver is not gifted with infinite patience.” Nowi looked up and nodded. She placed their child into her linen baby sling, and, as Virion's footman opened the door for them, lord and lady both walked across the foyer and out into the sunny spring day.

The April air still had a bit of a nip to it, and Nowi had refused a coat, but she didn't seem worried, even with her choice of attire. While Nowi was well-stocked with dresses both fancy and utilitarian, Nowi more often than not elected to wear the old dancer's outfit she wore years ago when the Shepherds had first stumbled across her. The short shorts, ribbons, and scaled top were quite skimpy, but the cold didn't seem to bother Nowi a bit. (Virion often wondered why she so commonly wore something that had such bad memories associated with it, but long ago determined that Nowi had to make her own decisions.)

“I have an idea!” announced Nowi suddenly, halfway down the manor's front staircase.

“And what tender inkling has danced into that charming head of yours?” asked Virion.

“I could fly us there!”

Virion's stomach dropped rather firmly into his boots. “What?! Erm, no, I do not, well, think that would be, er, most...practical!” Virion adjusted his cravat. “Indeed, for you must hold on to our dearest of dear child, and secondly...you do not know the address for which we depart, my love. No, I...fear that we must take our carriage.”

Nowi pouted. “Oh, come on,” she cried, “you can tell me where to go and hold the baby and everything! Don't you want to ride me?”

Virion stole a quick glance around to make sure there weren't any prying ears—Nowi was the picture of innocence, but eavesdroppers might misinterpret things—and then looked back at his wife. He sighed. From the moment they had met, Virion had discovered a chink in his armor, a new and crucial weakness: he simply couldn't say 'no' to Nowi.

Virion smiled a familiar, resigned smile. “Alas, if we must, we must. I shall release the driver from his obligations.”

After taking his daughter from Nowi, and quickly checking to make sure the child was still asleep in her holder, Virion walked down the stairs to the carriage. He looked up at the coachman and waved him off. “Your services are no longer required, my good man,” he said.

The coachman cocked an eyebrow. “Beggin' your pardon, milord, but it's a bit of a walk to where you're goin'. How're you gonna...” The man abruptly stopped and paled just as Virion heard the familiar crescendo of draconic magic from behind him. “Erm...Right,” the man muttered, “I'll be off.”

Virion turned around as the coach bid a hasty retreat. The larger, scaly form of his wife stood unsteadily. “ _Whoa..._ ” said Nowi, her voice echoing with magic. “ _I forgot how hard it is to stand on stairs like this._ ”

Virion smiled. “Ah, then we must make haste, before you find yourself taking a most ignoble tumble,” he said, “Now, I believe, as the crow flies, our destination is straight on, southeast by south.”

“ _Um...Which way_?”

Virion sighed, still grinning. He pointed. “That way, my precious.”

* * *

Now Virion was high in the sky, riding the saurian Nowi and doing his damnedest to avoid windburn. He had flown like this many times before, and while Nowi, as ever, insisted on going a fair bit faster than he was comfortable with, it felt no less natural to the noble than riding a warpony did. (Daughter, oddly enough, seemed even better off than Father, cooing slightly as she rocked in her sling.)

It would take a moment or two to reach their destination, even avoiding the tight streets. Virion looked down upon the roofs of the buildings of his domain, and was reminded of how important the city, and truly, the country, was to him.

Virion's return from self-imposed exile had been as dubious as he had expected—he had returned in the early afternoon, and the mob was at the door of the manor, torches and improvised weaponry at the ready, by sunset.

Virion had meant to meet the crowd alone, but Nowi had insisted on going with him. Virion had attempted to explain his actions to the Roseannans, and while his position, he had felt, was a concisely argued one, the mob seemed only to get more agitated. As the murmurs had slowly turned to yelling and swears, somebody threw a stone that struck Virion on the pauldron.

In what had been meant to be merely a distraction, Nowi transformed into a dragon. Unfortunately, the gesture came off as much more of a threat. Even the dancing that Nowi immediately engaged in had seemed more aggressive than entertaining, and the mob dispersed in wild panic. Virion had been all the more nervous afterwards—the mob would be back, and next time, likely armed for a fight. Nowi had just been disappointed no one had stayed to watch her.

Fortuitously, Nowi's performance had an unexpected effect—it had absolutely terrified the numerous foreign firebrands that had infiltrated Rosanne in the name of inciting the peoples' wrath, destabilizing the country, and making it ripe for annexation. The threat of a dragon—a dragon the duke was married to, no less—frightened even the most ambitious dynasts' agents away. The next time the mob had approached Virion, they were free of outside instigators, and proved far more willing to listen to their duke's words. By the time night had fallen, while there had been clearly still an undercurrent of suspicion among the people, Virion was in no danger of being forcefully deposed, and his head was no longer in danger of being placed on a pike. His people had met his wife formally for the first time there, too, and they seemed charmed, if still a tad nervous.

There had been talk, there was always talk, especially among the more well-to-do population, but most of it was less revolutionary and more gossipy. A favorite topic of scuttlebutt in those early days was about Nowi's appearance, and just _what_ her physicality meant about Virion's predilections. This made Virion realize, for what was shamefully the first time, just how much he loved Nowi—Virion knew what the muckrakers said about him, and _he didn't care_. He knew the truth, and that was enough.

In the months upon months since, Virion had been determined to deserve his regained trust, and served his subjects as capably as he could. Roseanne was rebuilding handily, and, with advances in the sciences and the arts, not to mention enhanced trade with countries all over the Valmese continent, there was talk of a golden age approaching for the small country.

In fact, Nowi's flight now approached the part of the city wherein one of the bigger cultural revolutions had gone on. The reconstruction had brought a flurry of artisans and other creative types to the area. Where once there had been merely the brown houses and businesses of Roseanne, there was now a network of gardens, murals, parks, coffeeshops, and the occasional abstract sculpture. Already the area was being called 'the Arts Quarter.'

Virion tapped Nowi on one scaly shoulder. “There, that's where we're going,” he said, pointing to a small shop sandwiched between a tearoom and some sort of odd tenement building. Nowi's sizable head nodded, and she dove down toward the ground, reaching the building in a matter of seconds. With a single healthy flap of her wings she decelerated, landing gracefully with a gust of wind that badly discombobulated a nearby street corner philosopher.

The shop was clearly the oldest building in the general area, but had been well-kept. It had no indication of its purpose: no display, no name, nothing except a hand-painted rose positioned just so on the door. Virion knew anonymity was sometimes the best form of exclusivity.

Nowi lowered herself to the ground and Virion stepped off. He checked his daughter in the basket, but she was fine, determinedly sucking on a corner of her blanket. “Come along, dear,” he said over his shoulder. He headed over to the shop and entered promptly, however. It usually took Nowi a moment or two to get out of her dragonesque form.

The shop was much the same on the inside as on the outside, with nearly antique furnishings that had been well attended to. Several wooden racks near the walls had a number of dresses, trousers, and other pieces of clothing hanging from them, somewhat crowding the small area. All the attire was as expertly-made as Virion had come to expect.

The adolescent boy behind the shop's counter looked up quickly from the handkerchief he was embroidering, but just as quickly settled back down into his chair. “Oh, it's just you, Virion.” He pushed a lock of his long pink hair behind an ear and returned to his sewing.

Virion smirked and stomped to the counter in mock outrage. “Do not I deserve more of a greeting, my dear child? Virion, your duke and master, hero of the war against Valm, part and parcel of the slaying—”

“You're boring,” said the boy, “101-84-96. Couldn't forget it if I wanted to. And you haven't changed.” He rolled his eyes. “Grandpapa will be out shortly, I'm sure.”

Nowi entered the shop, considerably less scaly than before. She peered around, looking at the clothes on display and walking towards Virion.

Upon looking at her, the boy became far more animated. He stared, intrigued, at Nowi. “This is a tricky one, since I don't usually size children, but...”

Virion cleared his throat. “Rosalio, allow me to introduce—”

“Shh!” Rosalio shushed, “I've got this, just give me a moment. I'm going to say...65...42...seventy...one. I think I'm right about that.”

“Huh?” Nowi asked.

“Never mind my grandson,” said an accented, gravelly voice from the next room, “he thinks his parlor tricks serve as a polite introduction.” The man who entered had a face sagging with wrinkles and age spots and his thinning hair was grayed to dull magenta.

“I'm right, though,” said the boy, slouching into a sulk.

The men ignored him. “Virion, my friend!” the older man said, as Virion kissed him on both cheeks in greeting.

“I must deeply apologize to you for not visiting your magnificent shop earlier,” said Virion, “But you surely know how the duty of parenthood weighs on us all.”

“A man who spends no time with his family can never be a real man,” responded Virion's friend, nodding. “Speaking of which, I do not believe I've had the pleasure of meeting your wife.”

“Ah! My deepest apologies!” Virion took Nowi by the fingers and brought her in front of his friend. “Vadhir, this is the love of my life, the fire of my soul, exemplar of the manakete, and my dearest of duchesses, Nowi.”

Vadhir kissed Nowi's hand. “Most charmed to meet you, Lady Nowi,” he said.

Before Nowi could respond, or anyone else could say anything, Rosalio yelled, “Wait, manakete?! As in dragon?! Wait, that was _real_?” He was leaning on the desk in excitement and disbelief. Vadhir shot Rosalio a glare and he settled down, but he did not return to his embroidery.

Virion grinned. “And this, Nowi, is the man, outside of family, whom I trust above all others; he is one of the noblest and wisest men I have ever met, and I would put my life in his hands, as, indeed, I do on every special occasion.” Virion paused for effect. “Nowi, this is Vadhir. He is my tailor. The boy is his grandson, Master Rosalio.”

Nowi gave her best curtsy (Virion knew she had been practicing) and spoke a polite “Nice to meet you,” to both Vadhir and Rosalio. Vadhir nodded in respect. Rosalio just gaped.

Nowi turned to Virion and asked “What about, what's her name, Diana?” Diana was House Virion's in-house seamstress.

“My precious, I have the utmost respect for Diana and her girls,” said Virion. “Their everyday dresses are fantastic, as far as they go, and they cannot be beaten on draperies. Sometimes, however, a wardrobe requires a...superlative touch. And then I go to my dear Vadhir.

“Speaking of which, I do fear that this is not merely a social call, Vadhir. In sixteen weeks time, I will be holding a soiree to end all soirees at my estate, and I do require more of your stylish beyond style originals. One for all three of us, please.”

“Three?” asked Rosalio. His grandfather glowered at him, but Virion refused to be discouraged.

“Ah, how dreadfully rude of me,” Virion said. He removed the sling and placed his child on the desk, on top of some fabric scraps. “Vadhir, Rosalio, this is my firstborn daughter, a fortnight old today.” The object of attention blinked.

Vadhir looked at her and smiled warmly. “She's beautiful, Virion.”

Rosalio looked somewhere between bored and affronted. “What's her name?” he asked.

“She does not possess one yet, my dear child. Indeed, that is what the party is about.” Virion considered for a literal second. “I suppose this is an excellent time: Vadhir, Master Rosalio, you are both formally invited to a Hatching Day party at the Virion estate on the afternoon of the twelfth of July. There shall be food, the presentation and naming of our child, talk, games, as my wife has insisted...et cetera, et cetera, all the details will be in your official invitations when we mail them out.”

“We shall be happy to attend,” said Vadhir. Rosalio looked like he wanted to say something, but took a look at his grandfather and thought better of it.

“Interesting topic for a party, Virion. Does this mean you haven't decided on a name yet?” asked Vadhir.

Nowi spoke up. “Nuh-uh. I mean, we have some ideas and all, but...hey, what do you think?”

“What do I think? Well...” Vadhir smirked at Virion. “You're not thinking of making her the sixth, are you, Duke Virion von Virion the Fifth?”

Virion adjusted his collar. “Erm, well, as...notable as the name is, I fear the...patronymic would be...less then appropriate, given the child's...well...”

Rosalio interrupted, to Virion's relief. “Family names are junk anyway. My family's got Gods-knows how many generations of rose names thanks to one freed slave from two thousand years back, or whatever...”

Vadhir glared at his grandson. “He was a knight, one of the companions of the Hero-King, and he chose what was right over his country and emperor. You are fortunate to share the man's blood, if not his temperament. I _know_ you remember that.” Rosalio glared back as only an indignant child could.

Virion felt the need to put out this potential fire. “Shall we begin the measuring?”

Vadhir glanced back and nodded.

The next half-hour was spent with Virion, and a occasionally giggling Nowi, having their chests, waists and other important lengths taken with measuring tape. Virion hadn't grown a bit, but Rosalio's guess was five centimeters off on Nowi's hips. Rosalio insisted the ribbons had thrown him off. Vadhir even measured the baby a little; while she would surely grow by Hatching Day, Vadhir had the general idea how much she should grow, and would make a fine dress that could be easily altered for a differently sized infant.

During all this, the baby had gotten slightly fussy. So, as Vadhir and Rosalio went into the back of the shop to assemble fabrics for husband and wife to choose from, Virion and Nowi sat on a bench quietly, Nowi gently rocking their child.

After the baby had dozed off, Nowi looked up at her husband. “Hey,” she said.

Virion chuckled. “Greetings, dear Nowi.”

“You really like Mister Vadhir, huh?”

“Do you accuse me of idle flattery? Never! Well, sometimes. In any case, do you recall why I desire to designate him as godfather, should he quit his waffling and agree?”

“If you told me, I forget.”

“Nah has told me of her life before she made her perilous journey to her past and our present. Cruelly treated by her adoptive parents, our brave but forsaken daughter took to wandering the streets of Rosanne, as if a lost breeze. On one of those terrible days, her eye was caught by a rose painted on a door. Inside this very shop, she met with a elderly but kindly man who recognized the child of his late friend and extended the hand of hospitality toward her.

“Our petite Nah and noble Vadhir would foster the most true of friendships, keeping Nah strong in the face of adversity. Vadhir supplied her, gratis, with the exquisite clothes she would ever own, her foster parents never having given her even a pittance of an allowance.” Virion's mind, unbidden, went to the Deinnomoth family, whom with he had cut contact off completely. It seemed mildly unfair to punish people for things they had done in a future now extinct, but _no one_ mistreated his daughter. Virion shook the feelings off. 

“Nah said,” Virion continued, “until fair Rosanne was lost and its people with it, Vadhir was a invaluable pillar of strength for her.”

Nowi's eyes expanded in understanding. “The dress she always wears...”

Virion nodded, smiling. “The many exquisite ruffles, the frilled collar—it is a resplendent dress, or, rather, it is a resplendent feeling to recognize one's tailor in one's daughter's clothes—like catching oneself in an ancestral mannerism. Nah has said that the only things she attempted to bring forth from the future were several outfits and a pillow—all sewn by Vadhir's expert hand. Alas, all were tragically lost to the winds of time, except for the one she wore.” He sighed. “Someone in some realm has some very exclusive attire.”

Nowi paused, lost in thought. “Do you think Rosalio's right?”

“Hmm?” Virion responded. “They measured you. Your hips are sixty-six centimeters, to the dot.”

“Not that,” responded Nowi, with a tiny giggle. “About family names being junk.”

“Rosalio is a fine lad, but is not to be attended to on serious matters,” said Virion. “Family is a precious possession, and to name a child after a loved one the truest of honors. In any case, were you notplanning on naming her Nah?”

Nowi looked at her infant, sleeping again. “I mean...it is kinda silly, isn't it? Nah doesn't really like it. Plus, there's not any reason to name her that, just 'cause Nah has the name...I dunno. Hey, what did Mister Vadhir say about your name?”

Virion re-creased his cravat. “Virion von Virion is the noblest of noble names, passed down from father to progeny for five generations, but it is not a name for a fair maiden. To be devastatingly forthright, I have never been sure about passing the name on to even my hypothetical son. There is a great weight to bear with such a name, and I am not sure I could inflict it on my flesh and blood.” He was gripped by a sudden nervousness. “...But do not tell my father.”

“I don't even know what my parents' names were,” muttered Nowi, her face falling, but then she perked up and excitedly said, “ _Hey!_ What about your mom? Or grandma! Maybe they'd have good names for her.”

Vadhir came back into the room then, with numerous elegant swatches of fabric, ending the conversation and fortunately letting Virion avoid mentioning the fact that his maternal grandmother was named “Hortense.”

* * *

Nowi and Virion had chosen their formalwear styles, Virion had paid his advance, and Vadhir had made the needless promise to start work right away. After they bid their goodbyes, Virion hailed a public coach. It wasn't that he _didn't_ want to ride Nowi back, but, well, Nowi had to attend to the child, of course!

The baby was periodically moving toward crying. Nowi supplied her with the end of a rag dipped in milk to calm her, but, still, it would be best to get home as quickly as possible, to the wetnurse and a needed changing.

After a short ride, the carriage stopped in front of the manor. Virion and Nowi hopped out and Virion paid the coachman, then he turned around and there was a woman standing on the steps of his home.

All women were beautiful in Virion's eyes, but all women were beautiful in different ways. This woman was elegant, with a attractiveness usually reserved for queens and matriarchs, but she herself could not have been older than thirty. Her long green hair was meticulously arranged to cover her right eye and contrasted with fierce red lipstick. Her clothes were every bit as elegant as she was, but they had not been in fashion for centuries, nearly looking Tellian in style. The woman was also clearly furious.

This was not the first time an angry woman had met Virion at his door, but it had happened not once since his marriage, and he had always known those women. (Twice it had been his mother.) This woman was unfamiliar, and in addition, there was something more than anger in her expression. This was a woman filled with something between righteous fury and unadulterated hatred.

Still, an angry woman had never slowed down a von Virion before. Virion bowed. “Hail and well met, my lady. It is a fine thing to be meeting such a lovely lady on such a lovely day. May I inquire—” Virion realized he was being ignored. The woman's sole visible emerald eye was focused on Nowi.

“Nowi.” It was a statement, but the woman still waited for a response.

Nowi looked up at the woman. “Uh huh?”

The woman remained high on the steps above them.“I suppose it even has a name?” she asked.

Nowi looked nervous. “No, s-see, there's this thing, called Hatching Day? She's, uh, she gets a name then.”

The woman's harsh expression softened slightly. “At least you remember the old ways. But it is of no real consequence.” She crossed her arms. “The child goes with me.”

“What?” blurted Nowi.

“O, vision of loveliness,” said Virion, attempting to get a conversation going, “I am afraid you have us at a distinct disadvantage. May I at least ask the pleasure of your name?”

The woman turned to Virion, fury covering her face, and opened her mouth widely. An inhuman, primal, ancient scream sounded from her throat, a roar exceeding that of any wild beast. The screech lasted for a long moment, then the woman finally stopped her cry. In the brief silence that followed, Virion attempted to get his heart under control. The noise that woman had made terrified some deep part of him.

The woman said, “That is my true name, the like of which has not been spoken for ages, a draconic name. If you insist on referring to me by a _human_ name,” she spat the word 'human' like it was the worst of profanities, “I have gone by the name Lyra in the past. It will do.”

Her gaze drifted, seeming to get lost in thought. “Such absurd names the humans give to their betters. Myrrh. Loptyr. Rajaion. _**Fa.**_ They taunt us with meaningless words and childish syllables.” Her eye flashed to Nowi again. “Your own mother they called Nevah.”

“...You knew my mother...?” breathed Nowi.

“Quite well, child,” responded Lyra, “You could consider me your aunt. Nevah was a fine dragon, but far too compassionate, far too trusting of the _humans_ around her. That is why she—” she gestured at Nowi's infant “—must be raised far from the venomous influence of humankind.”

“Lyra,” said Virion, “my dear woman! I am sure, should we discuss this—”

“I am a dragon, you dolt!” screamed Lyra. “I do not know if you are stupid or merely intransigent! I will take the child and I will take my leave from your corrupting ways.”

Nowi was close to tears. “What's going on, Auntie Lyra? Why do you want her so much?”

“Your child is the first Manakete born in over a millennium, the first half-breed ever! She deserves to grow into the dragon she is! I want her, Nowi, so she can claim her birthright!”

“B-birthright?” sputtered Nowi.

“We were as _GODS_ , child!” Lyra yelled, and removed a glimmering stone from her cloak. “Dragons would still be overlords of this pathetic planet if we had not been forced to put what little we could keep of our true power in these infernal rocks! What remains of the Dragon race—you, the Voice, even Naga herself—are so obsessed with the humans surrounding them they all but wish to become one of the creatures.”

“Speaking as one of the wretched--” started Virion, but Lyra interrupted with a firm order.

“Silence. You should be thanking me, child of man. You are a ruler among your mortal kind, yes? Have you not considered what would happen as the child comes of age? You can only rule for fifty years or less—your child would rule for generation upon generation. What would your people think of such an entrenched dukedom? Humans are selfish, loathsome beings, you must know that. An undying ruler, raised by humans, would be naught but a tyrant, and one that could rule rightfully for a thousand years, or else slaughtered out of mortal fear. Raised as a dragon, there is no such peril. Should she rule, she will rule fairly, she will rule far more than your pitiful duchy, and she will rule praised as the deity she is, like Mila and Duma before her.”

There was a pause, awkward and tense at the same time. Then Lyra spoke again. “I have said far more than necessary. Give. The Child. To. Me.”

“My dear woman!” began Virion, but he was interrupted once again, this time by his wife.

“She's ours, Aunt Lyra!” Nowi yelled, more indignant than actually angry, “You can't have her!”

“Child,” hissed Lyra, true anger dominating her features as the dragonstone in her hand began to glow violent purple, “ _THIS WAS **NOT** A NEGOTIATION!”_ Before Virion knew what was happening, there was an elephantine amethyst dragon flapping her wings before him.

At once, his infant daughter was in Virion's hands and a green dragon was at his side, the wind from her wings nearly blowing Virion down. “ _Stop...being...mean!”_ yelled his wife, power in every word.

Lyra let out a guttural cry and lunged for Nowi. In an almost casual motion, Nowi performed a graceful aerial backflip, sending Lyra sailing over her. Not satisfied with merely the miss, Nowi gripped the scales on Lyra's underside with her claws, and promptly hurled her backwards, sending Lyra crashing ignominiously onto the cobblestones. 

Before Lyra could pick herself up, Nowi turned and attacked. A blinding burst of ice and fire emerged from Nowi's mouth and shot towards Lyra. She shouted in pain as the attack hit her, and in a flash of light, Lyra lost her draconic form. That quickly, it was over. The remnants of Nowi's breath fizzled out on the road as Lyra, furious but beaten, struggled to hold herself up.

Her humanoid form's clothes were torn and her hair now fell about her face in awkward hunks. “ _NO!_ ” she screamed in rage, “You can't do this! I need her! I can't be— I—” Her expression changed from anger to humiliation, as if she had said something revealing.

Nowi, back to the girl she was, stomped down the stairs to where Lyra lay. She looked down at her beaten opponent, put her hands on her hips, and declared confidently, “You are formerly invited to my Hatching Day party, here, on the...um...”

Virion was gobsmacked, but still filled in for her. “Twelfth of July.”

“Thank you!” Nowi chirped, but then her tone returned to seriousness. “On the twelfth of July. There will be food, and entertainment, and...stuff. We hope you are able to attend.” She turned, returning to her husband's side, leaving an astonished Lyra in her wake.

Virion recovered faster than Lyra. “Well! Please leave your current address with my footman at your earliest convenience and I shall send you an official invitation just as soon as they are printed. It has been an overwhelming pleasure to meet you, Lyra, my dearest, but please, next time, do contact us first.”

Virion turned, took his wife's arm, and together they went back inside the manor. Virion stole a glance backwards as they entered. Lyra still sat in the street. She was stunned and confused, but she no longer seemed angry.

Inside the hall of Virion's estate, as the footman closed the doors behind them, Virion turned to Nowi. “An extraordinary aunt you have there, fair Nowi,” he said, “Let us hope she falls off of something.”

“Virion, that's not nice.” 

“My most apologetic of apologies. She is nothing to be ashamed of. Indeed, I fear there is one in every family. ...Two in mine, actually.”

“I mean...” said Nowi, looking down at her baby, currently lightly dozing. “Auntie Lyra was mean and all, but...I know what it's like to want a family more than anything.”

Virion nodded. “You are forgiving and sagacious, as most befits your station, my dear wife.”

“Oh!” Nowi looked positively radiant as she said, “Plus, plus plus! I had to invite her! She gave us the best name ever! Mom's name!”

Virion thought for a moment, then realized and gave a warm smile. Virion simply couldn't say no to Nowi.


End file.
